


Easier This Way

by orphan_account



Series: My Boys Need A Damn Break [6]
Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Lorenzo's marrying Clarice, Francesco wants Lorenzo, Giulty!Francesco, Hurt!Giuliano, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Lorenzo.”That one word is all it takes to draw a flinch from Francesco, like a barb from his flesh.Yes. Lorenzo. Because it was always Lorenzo, wasn’t it? It was Lorenzo, always shining, always unattainable to Francesco, a mere mortal in the face of Lorenzo’s almost god-like presence. It was Lorenzo who had driven Francesco to Giuliano in the first place, and, he suspects, Giuliano to him.
Relationships: Giuliano de' Medici/Francesco de' Pazzi, Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Francesco de' Pazzi (one sided)
Series: My Boys Need A Damn Break [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366057
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Easier This Way

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what this is. It was meant to be just one-sided Francesco/Lorenzo, but Giuliano wanted in lmao
> 
> I wrote this really quickly to celebrate the end of my exams (woo) so the tenses were all over the place in the draft so i may have missed one or two odd ones with my rough editing, sorry

Giuliano’s hair is as soft as he remembers, fine strands slipping between his fingers as his hand cradles the back of the man’s head. He presses their lips together, letting the familiar warmth and softness of his lips distract him, settle the roaring storm raging in him. A different kind of heat begins to warm him as Giuliano’s mouth opens, trusting and sweet, before his own. He wastes no time in deepening the kiss, filthying it like he filthies everything in life. 

Giuliano’s mouth is a warm haven; how had he forgotten that? How had he forgotten how sweet, how pliant, the man turned with a single kiss, how he clutches at Francesco’s shirt, eyes closed, soft, slick sounds of their mouths broken only by Giuliano’s softer moans and groans. The bolshy, fiery man was reduced to _ this _ with a single kiss, and it is enough to make Francesco’s head swim. 

“Mm,” Giuliano moans, pulling away, breathless. “Not that I’m not up for a bit of fun, but what brought _ that _ on?” His lips, swollen and red, are curved in a gentle smile, hair mussed from Francesco’s fingers, and it makes him seem so young, so _ soft _. A mirthful twinkle lurks in his eye, tempting Francesco into stealing another kiss, and another one after that- these ones more gentle. 

He makes a disapproving sound as Giuliano pulls away again, but allows Giuliano’s appraising look, shifting uneasily as understanding daws on his face. He can see it in the minute widening of his eyes, the slight pursing of his lips. Giuliano was always adept at reading people, at seeing what others didn’t, and so, for him, Francesco must be an open book. “Ah.” Whatever softness, whatever ease Giuliano had allowed Francesco to see, has now vanished within the next breath. Face shuttered, there is only the twist of his mouth, bitter, resigned, and full of self-loathing. It makes Francesco’s heart lurch- and not in a good way. God, he wants to kiss him back into that softness, that gentle openness that he had never appreciated when they were younger, wanted to open him up and never let him close himself from Francesco ever again. 

He doesn’t, though, because he is a coward. Because that’s not what he _ does _with Giuliano. He fucks and he kisses away his bitter, corrosive jealousy and Giuliano takesit. Takes it because- well. Francesco doesn’t know exactly why, but those flashes of self-loathing that cross his face, cloud his eyes, when he thinks nobody is watching, might have something to do with it. 

“Lorenzo.”

That one word is all it takes to draw a flinch from Francesco, like a barb from his flesh.

Yes. Lorenzo. Because it was always Lorenzo, wasn’t it? It was Lorenzo, always shining, always unattainable to Francesco, a mere mortal in the face of Lorenzo’s almost god-like presence. It was Lorenzo who had driven Francesco to Giuliano in the first place, and, he suspects, Giuliano to _ him _. 

The same Lorenzo who has just married Clarice, a permanent seal of him from the rest of the world. From Francesco. 

He nods; a condemnation, a finality. 

Giuliano stands straight, shirt gaping open, hair still mussed, completely and utterly still as something unreadable crosses his face. “Of course.” Stiff, suddenly cold, Giuliano’s words feel more of a slap than they have a right to. Fingers, uncharacteristically clumsy and slow, button up his shirt, eyes shifting from Francesco. 

“What, now you’re leaving? You never had a problem with it before.”

He wants to take back the words as soon as they’re tossed from his mouth, hating how sharpened they are by his anger, by his jealousy, even without Giuliano’s sudden, pained inhale. His eyes widen a fraction, skin paling. He looks like he’s been slapped. “Well,” he manages, tight and carefully controlled, smoothing down his hair. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

Francesco frowns, defensive. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Giuliano shoots him a glare, hot and sharp. “Don’t play the fool, Francesco, it _ really _ doesn’t suit you.” Francesco blinks- he has never seen Giuliano like this. He has always been quick to anger, even quicker to cool, but has never seen him so _ hurt. _Has never seen anger and fury muddled with genuine hurt, written all across his face, like it is now. It’s a sight, part of him suspects, that will never leave him.

“What are you on about?”

Giuliano’s eyes flutter closed momentarily, oddly distracting, before his chest heaves with a deep, controlled breath. His mouth twists sadly, in a way that mirrors the twisting of something deep within Francesco. “You never realised, did you?” He huffs, his words flat, shaking his head. “You never even fucking realised.”

“Realised _ what _?”

Giuliano’s mouth twists again, self-deprecating, as his eyes narrow. “I fell in love with you, all those years ago,” he declares, brave in a way that speaks volumes of the fear those words insight, lurking under his skin. It’s present in the tense likes of his body, the furrow between his eyebrows. He doesn’t look angry now, though. He just looks tired and weary, and _ resigned _ . Giuliano _ never _ looks resigned- not even when his father passed, lay on his hospital bed, growing paler and more gaunt with each haunting tick of the clock. He is a fighter, he fights against all the hurdles that have been thrown at him throughout his life, tames and forcefully shapes them until they yield to him. He doesn’t resign himself to _ anything _.

But that is irrelevant in the face of _ that _ bombshell. Francesco reels, feeling like he’s been sucker punched, chest tightening painfully. _ No, no he couldn’t have. _

“I knew what I was getting into, but it happened anyway,” he shrugs. “But then you moved away and I let you go, because I knew that day would come. And it hurt- God, it hurt- but it was fine, because I _ knew _ .” His hands are shaking, Francesco notices, horrified. “But then you’re _ back _ and you’re fucking kissing me like you missed me even _ half _ as much as I missed you, and then-” He breaks off, voice trembling, with a sob, muffled into a fist. “But you didn’t. Did you? You just fell back into an old habit because you couldn’t stand Lorenzo not being yours. So you got the next best thing.” He opens his arms, mocking. 

“Giuliano, no- I didn’t-”

“I can’t,” Giuliano interrupts, jaw set. “I can’t let you use me again. I can’t let that happen. I thought I got over you, I thought Simonetta-” his chest is heaving, and he is growing frantic, much to Francesco’s growing horror. He moans, pained, like a wounded animal, fist clutching at his chest, eyes wet with tears. “_ Simonetta- _”

“Calm down,” he begs, panicking. God, when had this gotten so out of control? Only minutes ago they were on their way to fucking, not a fucking love confession. “Please, just calm down. God, I’m sorry- I’ll leave, just not until you calm down. _ Please _, Giuliano.” He reaches out, cautiously, drawing Giuliano to him, trying to soothe him. Giuliano wastes no time in burying his face in Francesco’s neck, chest still heaving with silent sobs. 

Francesco has never been soft. He has never allowed himself to be, even all those years ago when he lay, post-coital, with Giuliano at his side, playing with his fingers, fringe sweaty and endearing in the way it clung to his forehead. But, now, he tries. He tries his best to comfort, but, honestly, he doesn’t even know _ how _. He feels like he had well and truly been tossed into the deep end of the pool; how can he comfort the man he has ruined so?

It feels like an age before Giuliano calmes, each moment torturously drawn out, heavy and stifling, but when he does, he reverts back to that cold, detached mask, straightening, not even looking at Francesco.

It hurt more than Francesco expected.

God, what had happened? He thought Giuliano didn’t mind, thought he’d enjoyed what they did. _ No _ , the voice at the back of his mind whispers, _ you just didn’t care. Didn’t care that you were using him. You saw that he loved you- you did, he was eighteen, it’s not like he was adept at hiding it. _

Francesco’s hand flexes, a phantom heat from Giuliano’s skin lingering. He _ loves _ him, and look at how he had broken him. 

(You break everything you touch; why should Giuliano be any different?)

He doesn't dare address the renewed flare of jealousy at the admission of another lover, who had also had a significant impact on Giuliano. Francesco isn't the only one who could lay claim to Giuliano’s heart, and he doesn't understand why that squeezes his heart and pricks his chest like thorns. 

Not even when, without another word, Giuliano walks away.

Not when he sees Giuliano, drunk and flirting with anyone that will humour him, later that evening. Not when they make eye contact, Giuliano’s eyes, always expressive, a window to the long-ignored pain festering in his soul, and definitely not when Francesco collapses on his bed in the small hours of the morning, not even exhaustion and the fuzzy cloud of alcohol muddling his brain enough to help him forget Giuliano’s grimace, the wetness of his eyes, the way his voice shook as he tore Francesco’s world apart. 

Those things simply didn’t bear thinking about. 

It's easier this way.


End file.
